Playtime
by Driven2Insanity
Summary: Jim Moriarty likes to clear his mind when he isn't plotting how to ruin Sherlock Holmes... luckily, he has just the thing. High M, BDSM warning.


The phone chimed beside her, and she groaned. She knew what it meant when that damn ringtone sounded, and _hell_ if she hadn't had every techie in her father's rolodex take at look, but no, it was stuck there until she decided it belonged in a fire. For a brief moment in time she considered ignoring the message, but quickly destroyed that idea with a sigh and reached for the mobile.

**Time to play.  
-JM**

She scowled at the screen. No please, no request, just those three demanding words. Not that she'd expect any differently, but as long as she was outside his range she could complain about it. She changed as slowly as possible and headed out to hail a cab. The place was always the same: fancy hotel in the middle of the city, with its enormous room practically remodeled for their most important client. If there's one thing she'd learned about Jim Moriarty, it was that everything (and everyone) had their price.

The taxi pulled up in front of the hotel smoothly and she got out, handing a few bills up to the cabbie. She stared up at the many floors of the building with resentment in her eyes, but eventually her feet moved her from the street to the lobby, into the elevator, and she jabbed the button for the top floor. As she shot up, up, up, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The anger, the resentment, she shoved it way back into her mind. Moriarty had rules, and some days she just wanted to get their business over and done without incident.

He was waiting for her when the doors slid open, dressed immaculately as always. His eyes lit up, but his expression remained the same - bored. She was, after all, just one of those ordinary people. And to him, she was just collateral.

"Hello, J."

She nodded, fighting to keep her face as blank as his. Jocelyn had no illusions as to her expectations in his presence, but she hated it when he didn't use her name. He cleared his throat; her eyes darted to his, his eyebrow arched - _What are you waiting for?_

Her mind wandered as her fingers went for the buttons on her coat. If it weren't for her father, if he weren't so bloody ambitious, if he hadn't gotten in over his head with this man, if, if, if... Her hand tightened on the last fastening. She was the cost Moriarty had demanded, and she was the price her father was willing to pay. And so here she was, a consulting criminal's plaything.

The coat dropped to the floor. Moriarty's dark eyes swept down her body and he smirked his approval. As per his 'requests' from their very first meeting, she'd worn his favorite outfit - absolutely nothing. He beckoned her with an elegant finger, and she followed him obediently. Maybe he did like the sound of his own voice, but he was mostly silent with her until he reached the breaking point.

He stopped her in the middle of the room. "Hold still," he ordered softly. She fixed her eyes on the wall ahead. Slowly, he circled her body, fingers reaching out and floating over the dips and curves of her skin. He ran a single digit down her spine and she shivered despite herself. He chuckled softly into her ear; she flinched. Laughing usually meant pain.

Reaching above his head, Moriarty lowered a pair of leather cuffs connected by a chain. They were lined with the softest fur and hung from the ceiling. She looped her wrists through the shackles and he tightened the straps. "There's a good girl," he whispered, eyes glittering. He secured the chain back in its original position, so that her feet barely touched the ground.

He stepped back and smiled happily. This girl strung up in front of him like a delectable feast... it certainly offered a distraction from the boring day to day, and kept his mind half-occupied while he plotted the destruction of one Sherlock Holmes. Without taking his eyes from the curve of her waist, his fingers wrapped around a braided leather handle. It was one of his favorite toys to use on his toy. The tail of the whip slithered on the floor and he watched in delight as her eyes followed its movement. She could hate him as much as she wanted, but she could never deny that he left her unsatisfied.

"Oh, this?" Her eyes snapped to his face when he spoke, and he pretended to examine the leather. "This little 'ole thing?" He stepped so close he could feel the heat radiating from her naked skin and dangled the whip before her face. "You want it?" he smirked, "You want it, hm? Well," he retreated a few paces and flashed a smile. "I do love to please."

The tip whistled through the air and glanced her on the hip. Jocelyn hissed through her teeth. It was a light blow, just a taste of the night ahead, but it stung nonetheless. Moriarty grinned and swung his arm carelessly; the tail wrapped around her torso and tip brushed the curve of her breast. She bit her lip, stifling a cry. It amazed her, the precision he had with that whip, but she'd be damned if she ever admitted it to him. A consecutive crack and a harsh pant on her end quickly reminded her that she was damned already.

"You need this," he whispered scathingly.

She closed her eyes against his truths.

* * *

They were about an hour into her visit when his laptop beeped an alert. He ignored it, continuing to trace the red criss-crossing lines on her skin with his tongue. She squirmed under his touch, head dropping back. He was being generous tonight, but she didn't dare question his good mood. The sound came again and he growled, nipping at her hip.

His eyes looked very large when he looked up. "Mind if I get that?" He smirked wickedly and soothed the bite. "Of course you don't."

He sauntered across the room and stroked a few keys. A man's face popped up on the screen, looking grim.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes!" Moriarty sounded ecstatic. "Quite a wrinkle your little brother threw into your plan, hm? I win again!" Jocelyn could imagine the neurotic smile on his face and did not envy the elder Holmes brother. "Although, it wasn't really a challenge once I got to Sherlock. Just another boring scheme."

"Yes," the Mr. Holmes on the screen said stiffly, "I have spoken to him about the matter. What concerns me, however..." He trailed off, his eyes fixing over Moriarty's shoulder. A brief pause later, he cleared his throat. "Am I interrupting?"

"Whaaaat?" Moriarty exclaimed with false surprise. "What could you possibly - oh, yes," he glanced over his shoulder, meeting Jocelyn's eye. "Her. She doesn't mind, do you, honey?" he smirked.

Jocelyn stared at him, then at the screen, her eyes flicking back and forth.

"You can speak, J," Moriarty said patiently. "I'll allow it." He moved back from the laptop. "Say hello to Mycroft for me."

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," Jocelyn said quietly, not quite looking at the screen.

"_Mycroft_," prompted Moriarty with a raised eyebrow.

"Mycroft."

"I think," Mycroft on the laptop said, coughing uncomfortably, "I would prefer you to return my call when you are less ... occupied."

"It can wait until tomorrow, then?" Moriarty's tone was playful, and Jocelyn shuddered from behind him. Whether he knew it or not, this Mycroft Holmes had just derailed the graciousness she'd been receiving thus far.

* * *

The rays of the morning sun fell across the bed, illuminating the scene. During the night, Moriarty had finally moved her to the bed, rebinding her wrists to the bed posts. Still clothed, he knelt between her legs; she thrashed under the attention of lips and teeth and tongue, shrieking to the heavens. His fingers dug into her hips and she moaned, babbling to God and whatever deities she could call on. He drew back and smirked wickedly up her body.

"God can't save you now," he hummed. He stroked her inner thigh. "You've been a good girl all night long, J. I'm impressed. And do you know what good girls get?"

Jocelyn panted in response, eyes glazed over. She was marked and bruised and she might have even been bleeding a little, but subspace was a beautiful place to forget about all that.

"Good girls get rewarded," Moriarty cooed. He lightly bit the flesh beside her knee and she jerked, eyes going down to his. "Do you know my name, J?"

He was mocking her, of course, but she was so close to being so far gone that she didn't care. "Jim," she whispered, voice raspy.

"Jim," he nodded with a smirk. "And I want you to remember it, honey, because I want you screaming it until you can't speak."

His head dipped again and she obeyed his commands, screaming his name like a mantra over and over until her voice disappeared completely. It wouldn't be until later when the pain would set in and the damage assessed, and she would take care of it all herself and swear that she would never go back to that ... _spider_ again. But she knew it was a lie.

All he had to do was call.


End file.
